


Ostinato

by Oceanspire



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Gen, Small Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8008711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanspire/pseuds/Oceanspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He plays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ostinato

He doesn't know when the rush first hits him, when he truly resonates with his choices, or when he decides that _this_ is what he wants to keep doing. But it happens, perhaps some time that he's on stage in front of an uninterested crowd of dead-eyed guardians, or it's when he feels the first twinge of accomplishment during a successful practice. Really, it's from listening to the graceful rhythms played out on the kit through the headphones plugged into his phone; the sheer power of a horn being played, or a snare being beat, sends him reeling and grovelling and he _knows._

So, he keeps at it, plays through school and plays into more school. Family members around him don't really understand, shrug off his accomplishments as they enter def ears. He has an armada of vocabulary that he spews out over salmon and rice on the dinner table, feeling jittery all over from sharing his experiences, but the subject quickly turns to more tangible evidence of success and he learns to keep to himself. It's worth it, he knows by melting into jazz playing through his phone, rolling the immaculate piece around his skull. One day, when he would become just as great as those that stand up on the stage and are recognized, appreciated, he too would be regarded just as victorious. (And it shall taste sweet on his tongue.)

But playing, he learns, is difficult. The giddy joy that comes from practice slowly fades into long mornings and hours of grit teeth and frustration. Still, when he returns to his appartment and laminates on the sound of a tenor melody and drumset beat, he can't imagine himself doing anything else with his time.

Success comes knocking on his door at a lower andante, and he falls into tempo. It is a gateway into a career of shining lights and beautiful victory, he knows, but as he rubs at his bruised cheek bone with a calloused hand he can't quite shake the constricting anxiety in his chest. He doesn't feel any more accomplished. Rather, he has been stripped of the swelling happiness that would grace him during rehearsal, for that had been smartly thrown away through the tears staining the splash cymbal, and instead felt colder with each passing day, with every hour amidst brasses and reeds and sticks.

His hands become as numb as his mind and soul. They are not unfeeling, but the way that he holds his sticks is significantly less strange then when they are not in his possession, and the scabs and callouses on his palms almost ache when he is not practicing. It's almost strange, though trying to remember sophomore year in high school, when a small wound had formed on the stretch of skin between his index finger and thumb had called for three band aids just to keep playing, was difficult, the memory watery and hazed by his newfound system.

There's always a wound on his chilly hands, and he plays despite them, tapping sticks against well-tuned drumheads. He is proud, so much so that he continues to play, continues to arrive on time to rehearsal, continues to fight tooth and claw despite crumpling so much. He's a million miles from the warm sensation of a school-funded band program, but he still listens to jazz on his phone. It's worth it, he thinks, because he steps on to stage as a core member and squints through bright lights to make out silhouettes that seem just as uninterested as others years before; it's exhilarating, getting right in the time of judgement what was worked so hard to achieve. 

Every concert, every competition, seems to get farther and farther away despite being no different. Practices become longer until they are everything. And music, music has always been his everything. For years it has resonated with him, he knows its language, sings its song. Yet, now he thinks of nothing else, if anything at all. The stepping stone to a brighter future shackles him mockingly to the ground but he can't quit, won't every quit. He is beaten to the ground, arrives to rehearsal with a bruised eye and a tired soul. It is weak, he thinks, but admirable perhaps, the way that he won't, can't, ever stop. The songs he plays repeat on a loop through the headphones in his ears. What once made everything worth-while, is nothing more than a page in the compisition of his life.

Being screamed at on a daily basis is like a crescendo written neatly on a page, and feeling lifeless is like an auto-pilot swing beat (triple time). And while his hands are cracked and his chest is empty and his head is foggy, he listens to that Jazz and there is a spark of something, somewhere, and he doesn't ever really quit. Years ago he had decided that this is what he wanted to do for the rest of his life; he started the song and he wanted to finish it. When he is ordered furiously to maintain time, he does; when he is sneered at and insulted before directed to play, he does. It is a numb cycle that takes over his life and really, he doesn't ever think it will change. Because music is glory, strength, and endless. There will always be another piece to practice, another song to listen to. So, he'll beat the drum until he has chipped away to nothing because that is what he decided to do with his life, because he is dedicated and proud and music is all worth while.

Every day, he arrives and he sits upon the throne, never quite prepared for what will become of him, until the day that he wastes away to nothing but a comparison on stage.

And each time, repeating, he picks up his sticks and he plays.


End file.
